


tma but its actually eldritch dance academy

by actualpanacea



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen, look you can blame my discord group for this i wrote this all on notes app at 2am, where theyre all like. dancers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-11
Updated: 2020-06-11
Packaged: 2021-03-04 07:33:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24659947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/actualpanacea/pseuds/actualpanacea
Summary: Jonathan Sims is not the Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute.He is, however, the Head Choreographer of the Magnus Academy of Dance.
Comments: 7
Kudos: 17





	tma but its actually eldritch dance academy

**Author's Note:**

> hmhhmhm so this is the first thing i've ever uploaded to ao3!
> 
> this originated from a discussion our discord had about what styles or types of dance each of the entities would be, and just kinda spiralled from there. its highly unlikely ill write any more of this but ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> (but just so you know the flesh is absolutely the can-can)

Not for the first time, Jon wonders just what happened in his life to make him wind up in this position. 

Currently, he is standing alone in the empty room of his office, all too aware of how the walls now seem to press in around him. Experimentally, he takes a few steps before realising that _oh, there is definitely not much room to travel here_. The whole thing is claustrophobic in a way that is entirely unsettling, as well as eerily familiar. 

With a huff of breath, Jon turns his attention back to the camera awkwardly propped on an old wooden stool. _Well_ . Camera might not be the right word. The device looks anachronistic against the polished, clean mirrors of the room, almost like it was taken right out of the 1800s. _Which_ , Jon muses, _might not be inaccurate_. 

And yet. 

It is the only _bloody_ camera that seems to be working in this _whole godforsaken academy_.

Rubbing at his forehead in resignation, Jon makes a decision and flicks the switch on the side of the camera on. It whirs mechanically to life, and he coughs awkwardly for a moment, shuffling his feet against the wooden floor before finally noticing the flashing red indicator at the top of the machine. 

“Well,” his voice comes out hoarse and he has to clear his throat before starting again. “This is Jonathan Sims, head choreographer of the Magnus Academy of Dance, recording rehearsal video for routine number zero-one-two-two-two-zero-four,” a glance down at a hastily scrawled sticky note, “which Tim has, without consulting _anyone_ , apparently called ‘The Anglerfish’.” 

“Routine begins.”

The dance itself begins slowly. Jon is a jazz dancer by trade, and the flowing motions come to him naturally as the instrumental track drones out a melancholy accordion.

_step, step, ball, step, pas de bourrée_

A percussive beat picks up the track and Jon finds himself moving more intently across the space. Delicately, he prepares and lifts his left leg up into a quick pencil turn, arms outstretched above him, spinning _once, twice, land behind_ and sweeping his leg out in a semicircular rond de jambe.

_posé, posé, step step up and double turn land and one-two three four_

The whistle of the flute hits his ears, and in the middle of a rather challenging fondu-into-pirouette Jon almost doesn’t register it.

_step turn?_

Involuntarily, his eyes twitch down to the floor and he curses himself as his jazz shoe thuds dimly on the wooden panelling. _Its rule one of performing, Jon_ , lord knows his Grandmother would kill him if she found out he looked at the ground, let alone how _Elias_ would react and

Still, he can’t seem to turn his gaze away.

The flute continues, and Jon faintly realises _oh, that's Tchaikovsky_.

Was that always on the track?

_step?_

_s_

_..._

Jon makes a decision.

_jeté, land, turn and fouetté._

Jon moves, and almost entirely loses almost all awareness of his body. He moves, and with a fading recollection knows that these were not the steps he choreographed before. He moves, and he is not dancing jazz anymore but his leg is turned out instead of parallel when he executes a brilliant pirouette, and that's _ballet_ posture, and why does it almost seem like there should be someone else in the room with him, fingers gliding across his arm, lifting him up and dipping him low in a jubilant embrace, echoing his graceful turns and meeting him in the middle and-

Jon _moves_.

Involuntarily, his feet shape themselves into a gentle curtsy and the music ends with a jolt. Jon feels like he’s been electrocuted.

The light on the side of the camera continues to blink an ominous red.

Jon stands very still for a moment, mouth slightly open before choking out a “Routine _ends_ ” and violently switching the camera off.

Well. 

That was certainly not the dance he choreographed. But perhaps it's the exhaustion taking over, because in that moment Jon finds he _really does not care at this point_.

So Jon opens the camera, removes the SD card from its shell, and begins the slow trudge up to Elias’ office to hand it in.

And if he pauses in the doorway and quietly scribbles ‘ _sarah baldwin??_ ’ onto a memo pad, nobody needs to know about that either.


End file.
